


Splinters in the Windmills of Your Mind

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Series: Silver Bullets and Green Berets [2]
Category: Supernatural, The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: One of Sam's (and then Cas') fellow patients in the mental hospital is none other than Capt. HM Murdock, who's not as crazy as even he believes. When things get wild after Sam and Dean unlock the Leviathan tablet, they bring HM with them to Whitefish, where the other surviving members of the A-Team eventually meet and join forces with what's left of Team Free Will. Together, can they keep Kevin safe and take down SucroCorp and Dick Roman?
Series: Silver Bullets and Green Berets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022950
Kudos: 1





	1. Crazy Train

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same AU as "Kindred Spirits" and was the first story I started writing for sameuspegasus' prompt, but the two stories largely stand alone; there's only one passing reference to "Kindred Spirits" here. The title, incidentally, comes from a sketch from _The Carol Burnett Show_ about [playing Sorry!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNG1DkS_f4g)—which was the first thing I thought of when Cas first tried to talk Dean into playing in "Reading Is Fundamental"...

“Howlin’ Mad” Murdock knows from crazy.

He’s always been a little... off. Even before ’Nam. After ’Nam, it was easier to just roll with the diagnosis and let his natural quirkiness provide the cover he needed to get free room and board at the VA and divert suspicion from his occasional missions with the rest of the unit. He wasn’t sure then whether or not he really was crazy. For a while, they said he wasn’t, until Hannibal died. Now, he thinks he might be, which is why he’s here.

He’s lived in wards before. He’s been in this hospital for a few years now. He’s seen every mental illness worth institutionalization and what each one does to people. He knows from crazy.

He remembers John Winchester from ’Nam. They may have been in different branches, but it wasn’t like the Army and the Marines never talked. HM met John a few times in theater and on leave in Bangkok, and he knows John and his boys have made the news a time or two. He knows John wasn’t the kind to have snapped, and the few times he’s seen actual footage of the boys, he could tell they were sane, too. The two playin’ Butch and Sundance a few months back? Those weren’t John’s boys. Those were sociopaths, at best—the signs were as obvious as BA’s gold or Faceman’s teeth. And that was his opinion even before he met the real Sam and Dean.

Yes, he saw John’s boys in person a few weeks ago, when Sam was brought in. Sam was fighting something then, something that was more real than Billy had ever been but not real enough that anybody else could see. HM caught Dean on his way out and promised to keep an eye on the kid, for John’s sake. He could see some pretty hefty mental scars in Dean, too, but not enough to keep him locked down.

Whether the old Marine following Dean like a shadow had been real or not was a mystery for another day.

No, the mystery for today is Emmanuel or Castiel or whatever his real name is. There’d been strange things afoot at the hospital the entire time Sam was there, but somehow he’d fought off whatever had been plaguing him, and it had latched on to this other guy—blue eyes, black hair, five o’clock shadow that never changes. A bunch of nurses and orderlies had died that night, but Castiel was locked up in Sam’s place, with his own nurse who smells like rotten eggs, and he’s been catatonic up to now.

Why HM thinks the guy’s got wings is anybody’s guess. He hasn’t told anyone, just to be safe.

Now, though, after that horrible lightning storm, Castiel’s awake and making the lights explode when he asks people to pull his finger, and HM can’t get a fix on the guy. Castiel’s got a screw loose, but the symptoms aren’t matching up with any disease HM recognizes—and listen, _muchacho_ , HM’s practically got the DSM memorized by now, even with the changes they keep making to it. This cat? He almost acts more like he’s _high_.

Then one of the orderlies yells at Castiel for breaking the lights and looks away from him, and Castiel... disappears.

Nurse Meg’s eyes turn black for a second as she snarls, but they’re back to normal when she spots HM hiding nearby. HM’s not on lockdown, so he knows he’s not in trouble for being there and observing, but he still flinches backward as Nurse Meg stalks toward him, hate and sulfur rolling off of her like the wash of a tail rotor. Somehow she scares him even more than General Chao did.

“They’re useless,” she snarls quietly, grabbing his arm. “I need you. Help me find him.”

HM quails and tries to pull away. “Wait, me? Whu—why—”

“Because I need him, and because Dean will _kill me_ if anything happens to him. It’s a long, complicated story that we don’t have time for and I don’t even fully understand. But as annoying as the little angel is, I need him. _Find him for me_.” And she pushes him toward the staircase. “I’ll start with this floor. You check downstairs.”

Somehow, HM doesn’t dare disobey.

So that’s how he wanders into the dayroom to find Castiel standing by the tables, his trench coat draped over his scrubs, looking quizzically at the board games. And somehow that triggers a memory from the POW camp—guy they called Loki, helped the team escape from there and from Fort Bragg. So much like Hannibal it was scary.

Something tells HM that Loki’s dead, too. Most everybody is now. He’s lucky he still has Face and BA to come see him now and then. And it’s not even that they’re that old—that’s just the way of it when you spend your life fighting scuzzballs.

Anyway, this one night, the guys in their tunnel were telling tall tales about family exploits, and Loki, he had a million. It’s his description of his baby brother Cas that comes to mind now—so curious, so earnest, so afraid of doing the wrong thing.

“I was,” Castiel says gravely, looking up at HM with troubled eyes. “I am again.”

HM blinks. That... doesn’t make sense.

“You knew Gabriel. Loki was his nickname.”

“Uh... yeah. How did you....”

But Castiel looks back at the games like he’s ready to cry. Then he flinches, and HM could swear he hears the Devil’s laughter.

HM clears his throat. “Hey, you wanna play a game or somethin’?”

Castiel looks up in confusion. “I’ve... never played any of these games.”

“Well, hot dog, son! Sit down. Lessee here—how ’bout _Sorry_?” The board game’s sitting on the top of the pile, and HM picks it up to show his new friend.

“Er, I....”

“Nah, maybe not—they don’t make it the way they used to, y’know, with the bell and the dice, like on _Carol Burnett_.” HM mimes ringing the bell. “Soooorryyyy!”

Castiel frowns slightly, then picks up another game, almost lovingly. “Gabriel would have enjoyed this one. What is _Candy Land_?”

HM grins, pushes Castiel into a chair, and sets up the game. Castiel’s wings settle pensively as he watches. They take a couple of turns each before Castiel gets the hang of it and beams when HM praises him, and soon they’re so into it that they don’t even hear Nurse Meg walk in.

“So _here_ you are, Clarence,” she says, making both men jump. Her mouth is pinched in disapproval when they look up at her.

But Castiel doesn’t seem fazed; he actually looks glad to see her. “Ah, Meg. You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

The world’s oldest line actually ruffles Nurse Meg somewhat, and the rotten egg smell fades a little even though she shoots back with, “I don’t like poetry, flyboy.”

Castiel doesn’t stop smiling like he’s stoned as he looks away. “It’s so clear now, how wonderful Earth is, this... this stunning thing, Father’s last perfect handiwork.”

Chills run down HM’s spine. He might be crazy, but those are the Devil’s words if ever he heard them.

Nurse Meg huffs. “Newsflash, Nicholson. Things are a little different than you remember.”

“Oh, Meg, _Meg_ , there’s a new prophet now; Sam and Dean will have the Word. They’ll figure it out. It’s out of our hands. Let’s just... play some Candy Land, huh?”

Nurse Meg’s mouth pinches together until it almost disappears, but then she sits down. “All right, deal me in.”

“Uh, here,” HM says hurriedly. “Y-you can take over for me. It’s past Billy’s bedtime.” He shoves the board and card deck toward her and stands.

Castiel frowns, tilting his head. “Billy?”

“My dog.”

“There are no dogs here.”

“Humor him,” Nurse Meg huffs, drawing a card. “He’s a friend of the family. And he knows more about us than he thinks he does.” Her eyes flicker black again as she looks up at him.

HM feels his heart skip as it sinks in. No... no, it-it couldn’t—

“Good night, Murdock,” she says in a sing-song voice and goes back to playing the game.

“I’m more of a cat person,” Castiel says dreamily, his wings ruffling a bit. “I think—I mean, dogs are nice, but they’re... they’re so....”

“Loud.”

“Well, yes, but... Sam’s rather like a dog, wouldn’t you say?”

She stares at him. “You’re asking me because I possessed him or because Captain Cab here’s barely met the kid?”

HM flees. He runs to the kitchen, steals a canister of salt, locks himself in his room, puts salt across the doorway and under the windows, then curls up in bed. He would call BA, but what would he tell the big guy? How would he prove it? And he can’t call Dean because he doesn’t have the boy’s phone number.

He knows from crazy. He knows just plain _wrong_. In Castiel he sees avoidance, regression, trauma, but mostly guilt... when he’s Loki’s brother, when he’s not the Devil’s mouthpiece. And Meg—no, no, no, he isn’t even going to _think_ it.

When Castiel chases a firefly past HM’s window a few moments later, HM keens softly and prays for someone to come help his world make sense again.

* * *

“Capt. Murdock?” Sam’s voice asks quietly some time later as a gentle hand rubs HM’s shoulder.

HM uncurls a little. It’s night still, or night again; he can’t be sure which, ’cause he’s been fading in and out pretty badly. “S-Sam?”

The boy who’s so much like his daddy and bears so many scars of unbelievable trauma nods. “Yeah. We kind of left in a hurry last time, and I wanted to come thank you—I didn’t know who you were then, but Dean said you were keeping an eye on me.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees from inside the door—the closed door, unlocked, but still salted. He’s like his daddy, too, but HM thinks he can see the woman his mama must have been in the differences. “We appreciate it. And... Meg said you’re having trouble coping.”

“Coping?!” HM blurts out. “Coping with _what_ , finding out she’s got black eyes and Castiel has wings and talks like the Devil sometimes?! You expect someone to _cope_ with THAT?!”

Dean looks concerned. “Talks like the Devil? What do you mean?”

Sam sighs and rubs HM’s shoulder again. “You’re not seeing things. We think maybe you’re a low-level psychic. Meg’s a demon. Cas is a fallen angel. And... something tells me the reason he’s talking like Lucifer sometimes is that he somehow shifted the vessel link with whatever else he took when he got me back on my feet.”

HM whimpers.

“Look, I know, I get it. It’s a lot to get used to. And it gets worse. But you’re not crazy. And we’re gonna get you out of here.”

Dean nods. “Only bad news is, we’ve gotta take this other kid with us... and Meg, and Cas whenever we can get him back.”

HM shakes his head. “No. Nononono no. Not Meg.”

Sam looks at Dean. “Separate cars?”

Dean sighs heavily and nods. “We’d better make tracks.”

“You guys go on. I’ll get him.”

Dean nods again, then nods once to HM. “Captain.” And he leaves.

HM looks at Sam. “Why Meg? Sh-she’s....”

“I don’t like it, either,” Sam replies quietly. “She’s about the oldest enemy we’ve got left. There’s a lot of bad history there. But right now, she’s also the enemy of our enemy, and... well, you know how that goes. Plus, Cas has kind of latched onto her.”

HM finally sits up. “He’s not really crazy. You know that, right?”

Sam sighs. “Didn’t know for sure, but... I wondered.”

“Look, b-before we go, can... can I email someone? A friend? Have him meet us?” At Sam’s skeptical look, HM adds, “I know, it’s a gamble, but—he’s got a charm, somewhere in all that gold, one like—like that tattoo of yours. He’s safe.”

Sam blinks. “An anti-possession charm?”

HM nods.

“Is he a hunter?”

“Nah, not the way you mean. Me and him, we used to work with a couple other guys to take down human scuzzballs—that was our unit in ’Nam, the A-Team. But now Hannibal, our colonel, is gone, so... we don’t do nothin’. Well, BA still has the garage, but that’s it.”

Sam studies him for a moment, then reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and hands it to HM. Praying that his old email account hasn’t been deactivated, HM pulls up the Internet app, goes to the login page, and nearly cries when he gets in.

“Okay. What coordinates?” he asks as he types in BA’s address.

Sam tells him.

 _Red Ball 1_ , HM types in the subject line. He puts the coordinates in the body, followed by, _Repeat, Red Ball 1. No leaks, just—need your help, mudsucker. HMM_

He shows the email to Sam just to put the kid’s mind at ease. When Sam nods, HM sends the email and hands the phone back. Then Sam steps outside to give him privacy while HM finds his real clothes and dresses.

“You got a reply,” Sam says quietly when HM steps out into the hall.

HM takes the phone from him again and has to stifle what would be either a laugh or a sob of relief at BA’s reply:

_See you in Montana, crazy fool._

* * *

It’s a long, quiet drive out to Whitefish, though the first hour or so consists of Sam briefing him on what in the world is going on with the Leviathans and all. They finally catch up to Dean, Bobby, Meg, and Cas at one of their gas stops, but the boy with the group—Kevin Tran—is too twitchy, still thunderstruck, so afraid of how his life has so radically changed that all he can think to do is hold onto the tablet that John’s boys have stolen and stick with his mother’s car. And that’s without even knowing that Bobby’s there. Dean seems to half-sense that Bobby’s around, as does Sam, but HM’s the only one who can see him (or else Cas and Meg are ignoring him). So HM doesn’t even offer to let Kevin ride in the other car with him and Sam; he knows the kid would never accept.

BA meets them at the Gas-n-Sip in Whitefish. HM lets out some kind of noise when he sees the van, which gets him a look from Sam that’s sort of amused and sort of sad and a lot understanding. But he doesn’t care. As soon as the car’s stopped, he’s out and running, and BA doesn’t even object to being hugged for a change.

“What kinda crazy trouble you into now, foo’?” he rumbles instead, even as arms that are still strong for their age pull HM tighter against the big man’s chest and a hand with a ring on every finger braces the back of his neck.

HM can’t stop shaking, now that he’s safe on _terra firma_ again with his blood brother. “C-c-can’t... can’t tell you out here, buddy, but it’s bad, it’s bad, it’s worse than you and airplanes.” He buries his nose in the mass of gold chains around BA’s neck and thanks God that for once he knows a thing is real.

“They kick you out?”

“Nn-nn. Boys busted me out. ’M psychic.”

He feels eyes on him, smells sulfur as Meg strolls up, feels BA tense. “So,” she says, “who’s the teddy bear?”

“Leave my brotha alone, mama,” BA growls.

“Hey,” Sam interrupts, stepping between them and shielding HM from Meg. “Let’s finish this out at the cabin, all right?”

“Sure about this guy, Sam?” Dean asks. He’s wary, but HM thinks his limpet act is proving to be a pretty good character endorsement where Dean’s concerned.

It isn’t entirely needed, though. Cas finally speaks up. “Bosco—BA—is human, Dean. He should join us.”

There’s a pause, and then HM can almost hear Dean nod. “All right. Let’s get up there. Captain, you want to ride with your friend there?”

HM pulls himself together enough to let go of BA and turn around. “Yeah, yeah, if... if that’s okay, Sam.”

Sam nods. “Sure. Follow us.”

But he doesn’t move as BA herds HM into the van, both of them being the most effective brick walls they can be to keep Meg away from HM until he’s safe in the van. Sam might be taller and younger, but BA’s still a force to be reckoned with. And for all the times they’ve annoyed each other over the years, that transfusion in Bad Rock just formalized the bond of brotherhood that HM feels grounding him now.

—Was that really thirty years ago? Man, they’re getting old.

Once they’re both safe in the van and waiting for the rest of the caravan to pull out, BA asks, “Who are those cats, man?”

HM tells him everything, what he knows, what he suspects, what he thinks he doesn’t know. They’re almost to the cabin when he finishes.

BA doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he does take one hand off the wheel and puts it on HM’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. I got you. Ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt you.”

Only then does HM realize that he’s crying.

Once they’re all at the cabin, HM and BA let Sam and Dean issue the orders while they try to provide something of a buffer for Kevin. Cas wanders around looking at things, and Meg hangs back in a corner with her mouth pinched. Everyone ignores Bobby, who looks unhappy but resigned.

There’s a break, though, after Dean finishes issuing orders, and BA takes the opportunity to walk over to Meg. “Listen here, devil woman,” he growls quietly. “I ain’t messin’ with you right now ’cause the boys say we need you. But you leave Murdock alone, or I’ll send you back to Hell so fast yo’ head won’ even have time to spin.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Like I care about some two-bit psychic. There’s only one flyboy in this house I care about, and I know how to stay on my enemy’s good side when I need to. I am the _least_ of Murdock’s worries right now—but thanks for making me feel loved,” she concludes with a flirty smirk.

BA snarls but backs off, and Dean asks HM and BA to come down in the basement to help him keep an eye on Kevin. Bobby comes with them, because what else is he going to do? Besides that, Kevin’s their best bet for finding some way to stop Dick Roman for good, so Bobby’s got as much reason to stand guard over the kid as the living do.

Time passes, and stuff happens. HM’s not really paying that much attention; he’s still pretty shaken by everything that’s happened the last few days, and he may be fading in and out until Bobby gets his attention and calls him over to a corner to talk quietly for a while. BA gives him a look of fond disgust, but Dean doesn’t even blink. Only Kevin gives HM a nervous glance now and then, like people used to do whenever he’d talk to Billy in public. The difference, of course, is that Billy never was real. But HM and Bobby sit over in their corner and talk about life and death and war and fighting scuzzballs of all sorts, and Bobby talks about his pal Rufus and HM talks about BA, and they don’t even really notice when Meg goes off to kill some other demons that had trailed them and BA helps her and Sam stop a couple of angels from trying to take Kevin away.

When Kevin’s finished translating, one of the angels, Inias, offers to take him home. Sam and Dean are perfectly willing to let him go, and Lord knows the kid needs a break from the weird. But BA, as big a teddy bear as he is where kids are concerned, says no.

Inias frowns. “Why not?”

“’Cause of this.” BA picks up Sam’s phone and shows everyone that _#FindKevinTran_ is a sponsored trending topic on Twitter. “Ain’t no way this case made big news on its own,” BA continues. “The Leviathans are probably sittin’ in Kevin’s house right now, pretendin’ like they’re police.”

“He’s right,” Bobby rumbles.

“I’ll see if I can find out who sponsored the hashtag,” says Sam and goes to a laptop. After a few moments of typing, he frowns. “This is weird. The sponsor’s some company called SucroCorp.”

Bobby swears, but HM holds up a hand to stop him from doing something foolish.

And a second or two later, Sam echoes the curse. “SucroCorp’s a big ag firm, but it just got bought out by Richard Roman Enterprises.”

“BA’s right,” says Dean. “Kevin’s house is probably swarming with Leviathans by now.”

Kevin gulps. “Is... is my mom in danger?”

HM shakes his head. “Nah. Those creeps need her to help ’em find you, and then they’d probably use her as leverage to get you to do whatever it is they want you for.”

Kevin whimpers.

Dean takes a deep breath. “All right, so he stays.”

“Surely—” Inias begins.

But Cas interrupts, “ _No_ , Inias. You don’t know what Leviathans are capable of.” He shivers hard. “Don’t risk your lives on such a fool’s errand. You can keep watch over Kevin here.”

Inias sighs. “Very well.”

While the angels go outside to set their perimeter, Dean puts Kevin to bed in the bedroom. Then he makes up a pallet next to the bed and all but pushes HM onto it. HM starts to protest, but apparently his body remembers how long it’s been since he slept better than his mind does, and he’s out cold in a matter of seconds.

It’s late afternoon when he wakes, and there’s sulfur in the air. But Meg and Cas are gone, and the words _Hoople, ND_ are scorched into the table, and Sam and Dean are discussing who should stay with Kevin and who should go to Hoople to try to find something called an alpha vamp.

“A what?” HM asks.

“He’s the father of all vampires,” BA replies before Bobby can.

HM gulps. “I’ll stay with Kevin.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Kevin grouches, coming in behind HM.

HM turns to him. “No, but you could use some company, couldn’t you?”

Kevin looks at him warily.

“Just ’cause I talk to ghosts don’t mean I can’t talk to humans.”

That actually gets a laugh out of Bobby.

“And I got all kinds of stories about Vietnam. You ever been over there?”

Kevin’s expression goes from surly to sad. “No. That was supposed to be my graduation present.”

“But if your mom’s family’s from the south, I bet you I’ve been to their town.”

Kevin blinks and glances at HM’s jacket; the design on the back is pretty worn, but the lettering’s still visible, and the kid has to have noticed it before now. “Actually, it’s not all that far from Da Nang.”

“See, what’d I tell you? Look, I’ll make you a deal. Me an’ Bobby’ll stay here, keep you company while the boys and BA go find this vampire, and I’ll tell you some funny stories about ’Nam and do the dishes if you’ll do the cooking.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sounds like a sweet deal to me, man.”

But Bobby frowns, and the temperature drops. “Why the hell should I stay behind? You idjits need me.”

Kevin blanches. Evidently he heard that.

Dean actually looks at Bobby for the first time. “Bobby, we’ll have BA. And it’s not like we haven’t dealt with vamps before. Stay here and help keep an eye on the prophet; he needs you more than we do.”

“Dean,” Bobby starts to object.

But Dean holds up a hand. “I know. You want some action. We’re not askin’ you to sit anything out. We’re askin’ you to take guard duty.”

The temperature drops further as Bobby rolls his eyes.

“Bobby,” Sam says quietly, “you’re startin’ to sound like Dad.”

Bobby actually flinches at that.

BA starts asking Bobby questions about what to do once they get to the vampire nest, which gives Dean cover to take a hip flask out of his pocket and tuck it into a drawer in the kitchen. Yet when the boys are ready to go and are taking their leave of Kevin, Bobby—presumably invisible once more to everyone but HM—takes the flask out of the drawer and slips it into Dean’s pocket again. That done, Bobby confidently walks outside... and Dean, apparently feeling the temperature change again, looks at HM. HM nods once, and Dean tosses him the flask as he and Sam and BA head for the door.

HM can think of only one place safe enough to hide the flask. He takes a quick rummage through the kitchen cabinets and finds what he’s looking for: a good-sized cast iron skillet. The flask fits inside easily, and HM slaps the lid on the skillet and shoves the whole kit and caboodle into the back of the cabinet, behind a bunch of other iron cookware Bobby won’t be able to move to get to the skillet, if he can even figure out that’s where the flask is.

Kevin makes the mistake of turning on the TV seconds before Bobby gets jerked back into the house. Bobby’s annoyance causes an EMF spike, and the TV dies with a pop and a high-pitched whine, which makes Kevin jump.

“Hey, hey, hey,” HM says. “Bobby, c’mon. You’re scarin’ the kid.”

Bobby sighs and makes a visible effort to pull himself together. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

The next two days are kind of a blur. HM tries to keep things light and keep the stories coming, even prompting Bobby to tell a few of his own, but Kevin’s still pretty freaked by the ghost story he’s living. And Bobby’s restless. Sam took his laptop so he can research on the road, and with the TV out, that means the cabin’s pretty well cut off from anything resembling news. Of course, HM figures this is a good thing, as het up as Bobby is over Dick Roman’s plans. But Bobby’s chafing at the forced inaction, not being able to be on the front lines. He’s kind of like Hannibal that way.

The only thing that finally makes Bobby soften a little is when HM nearly falls asleep in his coffee. Kevin’s already gone to bed, but HM’s the only other human around, and he figures he needs to be on 24-hour watch. But he’s too short on sleep already, and caffeine is getting him only so far.

Finally, after the third time HM dozes off and starts dreaming and wakes up a split second later, Bobby sits down beside him with a sigh. “Go on to bed, Murdock. I’ve got this.”

HM shakes his head. “Can’t. Somebody’s gotta keep watch. And you’re....”

“I’m dead. I ain’t rusty.”

HM starts to object that that isn’t the point, but he sways a little even though he’s sitting still.

Bobby’s cold, spectral hand lands on HM’s arm. “Couch is right over there.”

HM sighs and gets up and staggers over to the couch. He’s asleep before he lies all the way down.


	2. New Developments

HM doesn’t really know how long he sleeps, what time he wakes, whether anything he says to Kevin while he is awake makes sense. What he does know is that when the sun starts to go down the second evening, Bobby’s still there and Kevin hasn’t completely freaked out on him. That’s about when BA and the boys come back—and before they come inside, another car drives up.

A car that holds Face and Lin Duk Coo.

HM waits just inside the door while the boys test the new arrivals with silver, holy water, and borax, just to be thorough. No sooner do they check out, though, than HM dashes out to hug Face and shake hands with Lin. “Lin, you buckaroo! What are you doin’ here?”

Lin smiles and nods toward Face. “Faceman hires me as cook. We are in danger; he brings me with him.”

Face nods. “Yeah, it’s a good thing I called BA when I did. Sounds like we’re all working on the same case. By the way, we came through Bad Rock on the way up here. Mo sends her regards.”

HM’s breath hitches a little at the mention of Hannibal’s widow, the doctor who’d used HM’s blood to save BA’s life all those years ago. “She doin’ okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Look, why don’t we do our catching up inside?”

HM nods, and they all follow the boys into the cabin. Kevin’s shocked to meet Lin, and Face and Lin are shocked to meet Bobby, but Bobby’s too worried about the alpha’s blood—which the boys did get because apparently they need it for some kind of anti-Leviathan weapon—to care much about the new arrivals.

At least, he doesn’t until Sam says, “I’m glad you brought your chef, Mr. Peck. We’re gonna have to get creative with our cooking, and while we know how to hunt things like deer, we don’t have much experience cooking stuff that doesn’t come out of cans.”

Face nods. “I know. That’s the other reason I brought him.”

Bobby swears. “They’ve started already?”

HM looks from Bobby to Sam to Face in confusion. “Whoa, what? I don’t—”

“SucroCorp makes food additives,” Face explains. “Particularly high fructose corn syrup. Under the direction of Richard Roman Enterprises, they’ve developed a new type of corn syrup that’s laced with a drug that keeps people complacent, compliant, and hungry.”

HM gulps. “High fructose corn syrup—that’s in—”

“Everything. LA was turning into a parking lot when we left. That’s why we came up through Bad Rock, to warn Mo. It hadn’t hit bad up there yet, but she’s spreading the word, said she might buy up everything with corn syrup in it and torch it all.”

Dean sighs unhappily.

“Stuff’s a double-edged sword,” Sam adds. “Not only are the Leviathans using it to turn the general public into feed stock, it also kills any monster other than a Leviathan that tries to feed on a human.”

“And it gets worse,” Face continues. “SucroCorp’s just announced they’ve reformulated their coffee creamer. The lab reports are worded extremely carefully, but near as I can make out, the new creamer contains an additive that’s toxic to people with certain genetic markers and certain brain structures. And they’ve already done at least one field test on it.”

Bobby swears again, and the temperature drops.

Dean turns to Face. “Now, I know why we know all this. How did you know to dig into SucroCorp?”

“Since Hannibal died, I’ve been doing some freelance investigation for certain media groups. About six months ago, a blogger asked me to look into Richard Roman Enterprises.”

“What, like Anonymous?”

“No.” Face braces himself—the boys may not be able to tell, but HM can. “Andrew Breitbart.”

The boys look more confused than anything, which is probably good.

“See, Andrew knew the real Dick Roman. Roman was kind of a Rockefeller Republican, but more conservative than not, yet he’d always kept his politics to himself. When Roman suddenly started making headlines with the way he was supporting the NRA and such, Andrew was confused but not yet concerned. What finally tipped him off that something was wrong was that Roman flipped his position on amnesty. The old Roman was in favor of finding ways for more people to come in legally, as long as they’d work and assimilate, but cracking down on the cartels and the gangs. The new Roman was all for complete amnesty and open borders.”

“More worker drones and breeding stock,” HM realizes to his horror.

Face nods. “We hadn’t worked out that the new Roman’s not human, but we did know what he was doing was inhuman. Andrew was just about set to go public with what we knew. He was finalizing the release schedule; you know how he loved the old drip-drip-drip approach. The initial reveal was set to launch March 15.”

“Beware the Ides of March,” Sam murmurs. “I’d heard that was one of his last tweets.”

“And two hours later he was dead,” Face concludes grimly. “The coroner ruled it a heart attack, but the symptoms match up with this new coffee creamer additive. And the field test report I found on the SucroCorp server, filed from an LA IP address half an hour after Andrew’s death, noted that the additive worked as intended, just too slowly.”

Dean swears.

“Faceman knows how to disappear,” Lin notes. “We hide for two months. He tries to find way to stop Dick Roman’s plan.”

“And wasn’t getting anywhere,” Face confesses. “So I called BA, and he told me to haul freight up here.”

“How soon do you expect SucroCorp to launch the new creamer?” Sam asks.

Face shakes his head. “There’s a GeoThrive International board meeting supposed to be held at SucroCorp headquarters in Seattle on the 12th, but I couldn’t find any sort of agenda. Something happened around the first of the month; since then, they’ve been even more careful about what goes on the company servers than usual.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look, and Sam clears his throat. “We... probably had something to do with that.”

Dean looks at Face again. “You thinkin’ they’ll release the new stuff after the board meeting?”

Face shrugs. “Sounds logical. The board members are flying in from all over the globe. If they’re taking precautions against hacks of their digital servers, they probably aren’t passing other messages over lines that could be tapped.”

“Or snail mail,” Bobby adds, “or even couriers. We intercepted the tablet; it’s a cinch they’ll figure anything else could be intercepted. And I’m 90% sure that hard copy of the master plan I saw was the only one they had, and that was back in January.”

Sam nods thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve got half of the ingredients we need for the weapon that’ll kill Dick. Board meeting’s on Saturday, which means we’ve got... two days to get the rest.”

“At most,” Dean agrees. “And we also need some way to destroy the creamer and corn syrup.”

HM looks at BA. They both look at Face.

“Hannibal ain’t here,” BA points out.

“We’ll have to plan it without him,” Face agrees. “I’ve got the layout of SucroCorp headquarters.”

HM turns to Bobby. “Can you tell us how to get past the bogies?”

Bobby’s smile isn’t all that much like Hannibal’s, and he doesn’t produce a cigar, but there’s something about the fierce light in his eyes that sends a pang through HM’s heart. “Gladly.”

Dean frowns. “Wait a minute. We can’t ask you guys to—”

BA cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. “You ain’t askin’, Dean. We’re here. It’s our bag.”

HM can’t help grinning. “Son, looks like you just hired the A-Team.”

And blessed if that phrase doesn’t make him hear trumpets just like it always did.

Dean runs a hand over his face, like he doesn’t know what to do with unexpected help like this. Then he sighs. “All right. You guys get the warehouse assault planned. We’ll go huddle with Kevin, figure out what else we need to gank Dick. And Lin....”

Lin picks up a knife and nods once. “I cook dinner.”

The next few hours are almost as surreal as the rest of the past week has been. HM tries to keep his focus on the plan to destroy the SucroCorp warehouse, but the few times he listens to what the boys are discussing with Kevin, they’re talking about bones and nuns and what information might be missing from the Word of God tablet. At one point, Dean goes outside to call Cas and runs back in dodging a couple of curious bees. And it sometimes throws HM anew that they’re planning not with Hannibal, but with Bobby, and Bobby’s a ghost at that. The only really normal thing that happens is that Lin somehow comes up with a fabulous rabbit stew that sends Dean into rhapsodies, which is strange because it isn’t strange.

HM can’t help wondering whether the boys are wrong about him really being sane after all.

By morning, though, the boys are off to find the bone they need, and BA has a plan to scrounge enough materials to turn the boys’ “junker of the week” into a car bomb. In fact, the boys leave said junker and take Face’s car, and Face and BA take Kevin’s car to do the scrounging. Dean offers to swap around the license plates, but Face hints very strongly that his are fake anyway.

Like Lin said, Face knows how to disappear. Lord knows he’s had enough practice.

So while they’re all gone, HM and Lin catch up and make Kevin and Bobby crack up by renewing their age-old attempt to get Lin to sing the right words to “The Chisholm Trail.” (After forty-plus years, it still comes out “Come-a ti-yi yippee-yi-yi-yi-yi, / Come-a ti-yi-yi-yi-yi.” Then Bobby busts out the Garrison Keillor version, “Comma ti-yi-yippee semicolon,” and Kevin’s in stitches.) Face and BA get back just as the sing-along is winding down, and HM gratefully throws himself into helping get the junker ready to roll.

When the boys get back, Dean offers to help once he and Sam have seen to the last weapon ingredient. HM resolutely ignores what he senses happening inside the cabin, and he doesn’t say anything when Dean comes back out and HM gets a whiff of sulfur off of him. It’s only a whiff. Dean’s still himself. And while most of the technical and mechanical part is already done by that point, Dean recommends lacing the explosive with salt and borax. That done, the four of them step back to admire their handiwork. The front end is armor-plated for ease of gate ramming, and the detonator has a remote trigger.

“Now we just need to figure out who’s driving it,” Dean says just as another car drives up.

Meg gets out, takes one look at the junker, and says to Dean, “I’ll drive it. Just get your boyfriend out of my hair.” And she stomps into the cabin.

Face turns to HM with a frown. “Who’s....”

“Meg,” HM replies, unable to keep from shuddering. “She’s a demon.”

Wide-eyed, Face looks over at the car, where Cas is listening to Don McLean’s “Vincent” and still acting stoned, and back at HM. “So what does that make him?”

“Angel. Fallen, and kind of the worse for wear, but he still has his wings.”

Face turns to BA, who shakes his head. “He ain’t kiddin’, man.”

“I think _I’m_ crazy,” Face quips.

HM shakes his head. “I-I can’t get a fix on him, Face. Cas is runnin’ from something, and he knows he shouldn’t, and it’s comin’ out in all these avoidant behaviors—but I can’t tell how much is an act.”

“Oh. Great. Now we’re psychoanalyzing angels.”

“This is serious,” BA states. “Murdock ain’t playin’ aroun’ this time. We gotta get Cas back on his feet, ’cause I got a feelin’ we’re gonna need him.”

Face’s eyes narrow suddenly. “Wait a minute. You said the Leviathans know Sam and Dean have the tablet, and they either know or suspect that we’ve got Kevin. That _has_ to mean that they know we’re coming, or at least that the boys are coming.”

“Yeah, but they cain’t know how or when.”

“But if they’re as smart as I think they are, they’ll be taking some kind of precautions to protect Roman, at least until they’re sure they have us stopped.”

HM narrows his eyes in turn. “If we were shapeshifting monsters tryin’ to take over the world, and somebody was comin’ to try and kill Face, and we didn’t want dealin’ with that to mess up our other plans, what would we do to throw ’em off?”

“That depends,” Face says slowly, fully aware of how odd it is that HM’s asking the question in all seriousness because such monsters are real. “If they know what I look like but aren’t sure I’ll be there, then the easiest thing to do is for me to change my appearance, make them think I’m not there. But if they _do_ know I’m there....”

BA chimes in, “Then if we all look like Face....”

HM nods, thinking. That’s what JK Rowling had Harry’s friends do in _Deathly Hallows_. More than that, it’s an upgraded version of the plan Hannibal used in Bad Rock—in fact, he can still hear Hannibal’s voice: _We might work a shell game on these geeks... it’s just a set-dressing problem, nothing to it._

“Yeah,” HM says aloud. “That’s what Hannibal woulda done. But there’s—there’s gotta be some way to see past that, to see the monster’s real face underneath.”

Face tilts his head to the side once, skeptical. “It’s not like they’re wearing a rubber mask.”

“But _somebody_ has to know what these guys really look like.”

Face and BA look at each other. Then all three of them look at Meg’s car, where—Cas has disappeared, but Dean’s apparently overheard enough to be looking at them now like he’s on the same page.

“I think he’s inside,” Dean says.

The four of them go inside to find Meg stomping around the perimeter of the living/dining area and Cas rambling something at Lin in Vietnamese. Lin looks confused but too polite to say so.

“I was lying low halfway across the world,” Meg fumes quietly to Dean, “when this idiot shows up and zaps me back here.”

Dean turns away from her and clears his throat to get Cas’ attention. “Cas,” he asks in that too-calm keep-the-crazy-man-focused tone HM’s heard so many times, “why did you bring Meg back here?”

Cas swallows hard and looks down and away, not wanting to come to the point directly, and the Devil starts laughing at him. But he starts speaking anyway. “I was going to study the fruit—and flowers; flowers come first, obviously—but I started to worry about your having enough food that isn’t tainted. You need to keep up your strength—”

The Devil’s laughing harder, more harshly.

“Cas,” Dean prompts with a warning edge.

“I—knew you’d need help when you attack SucroCorp,” Cas continues, still desperately avoiding eye contact and wringing his hands a little as his wings rustle anxiously. “But I don’t fight, and the garrison must stay with the prophet, so I thought of Meg, and I was going to help out by finding safe food for you to eat....”

“Cas....”

“But I didn’t realize that Lin was here—”

“Crowley said we’d need you.”

“He was wrong. I’ll... wait right here, help look after Kevin. I can get supplies for Lin. I—”

“You know what the Leviathans look like, don’t you?”

Cas finally makes eye contact, but he’s terrified. “Dean....”

“If they all, every one of ’em, looked alike to us, you’d still know which one was the alpha.”

Cas pointedly turns away and starts looking at the floor again. “I suppose I could steal the monkeys from their cages, but where would I put them?”

And BA, in time-honored tradition, loses his patience and his temper. He charges up to Cas, grabs him by the front of his scrub shirt, and slams him backward against the wall. “I’m gittin’ TIRED o’ this crazy RAP, Castiel!” he thunders.

Of course BA’s using that line on someone other than HM for a change. _Of course._ As if the last week hasn’t been surreal enough. HM doesn’t know whether he’s amused or jealous or just dizzy.

But it doesn’t matter, because Cas is still searching for an out, any out, and makes eye contact with HM past BA’s shoulder. “Don’t we need a cat? Doesn’t this cabin feel one species short?”

Before HM can respond, Dean states, “You started this, dude.”

Cas is nearly crying. “Dean, you have no idea what I did. You saw the damage I did to Earth, but I _devastated_ Heaven. If I get involved, I will destroy everything again!”

“And if you don’t get involved,” BA roars, “them Leviathans are gonna destroy everything!”

Dean’s out of patience, too. “You’re the only means we have of being sure we use the right weapon on the right guy. And you’re the reason the Leviathans are running loose in the first place. So you don’t get a damn cat. You don’t get to get supplies. You don’t get to wait with Kevin. No one cares that you’re broken, Cas. _Clean up your mess!_ ”

In the brief moment of silence that follows that order, HM’s mind whirls, trying to make sense of what he’s just heard. Dean’s clearly heard that sentiment— _No one cares that you’re broken_ —far too often in his life, especially from Cas; HM can practically hear Dean’s soul screaming, _You sure as hell never cared about how broken I was, and you broke Sam worse!_ (And how, how, how does HM know this? Is he really psychic after all?) But why would Cas lay waste to Heaven or unleash the Leviathans on Earth, and why is Dean so sure that Cas knows what each Leviathan looks like? Is _that_ what Cas has been running from?

It must be, because Cas all but whimpers, “I think we should play Twister.” And he vanishes.

Meg huffs. “Smooth move, Clubber Lang.”

BA growls at her.

HM senses something behind him and turns to find Cas in the corner, playing Twister by himself. He’s still running, trying to find whatever shelter he can in the antic disposition he’s put on. The guilt, HM can understand, but the avoidance and fear are starting to border on true pathology.

But HM doesn’t get the chance to figure out what to say to get Cas back out of himself, because Bobby finally snaps. The temperature plummets as he lunges at Cas, catching the angel off his guard and knocking him... _through_ the floor without leaving a hole. Sounds of a scuffle start coming from the basement.

The brothers swear. “Stay with Lin!” Dean orders Kevin at the same time Face orders Lin, “Keep him here!”

“Ai yi yi,” Lin agrees, hustling Kevin toward the bedroom.

And everyone else charges down the stairs to the basement, where frost is starting to form on metal surfaces and Bobby has Cas pinned to the ground and is _whaling_ on him. He’d be beating the living daylights out of Cas’ face if he were alive and Cas were human. But while Cas is thrashing from the force of the attack, his wings flailing, he’s not trying to defend himself at all.

“You _stupid, stupid, damn fool idjit!_ ” Bobby cries, punctuating each word with a blow. “You think this is all about you? You think your fears and your hurts matter more than what those monsters are doin’ to this planet? You think you can hurt my boys and get away with it ’cause you’re _pitiful?_ ”

“Bobby!” Dean calls.

Bobby doesn’t seem to hear him. “I’m _dead_ because of you!” he rages at Cas, still using punches for emphasis. “I’m _stuck_ here as a damn _ghost_ and can’t _help my boys_ because of _you!_ ”

The lights flicker dangerously.

“ _Bobby!_ ” Sam calls.

Dean grabs HM’s arm. “The flask,” he says quietly. “What’d you do with the flask?”

And HM’s brain shorts out. “I-I-I don’t know! I don’t remember!”

“ _You damn selfish, self-centered feathered freak!_ ” Bobby screams at Cas, his hands going around the angel’s throat. “YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN LUCIFER!”

Something glass shatters.

“BOBBY!” both boys bellow.

Everything freezes for a moment. It’s like time stands still. Cas has his hands around Bobby’s wrists, and his eyes are wild with terror. And Bobby’s... Bobby’s shaking, like his spirit remembers how his body should be reacting to this situation.

Finally, slowly, Bobby lets go of Cas’ throat and moves his trembling hands to rest, open, on either side of Cas’ face. “I’m s-s-sorry, Cas,” he says, his voice breaking.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Cas replies quietly. “You’re right. I have been thinking only of myself. And it is my fault you’re dead.”

Face finally speaks up. “If you really feel that way, Castiel, why don’t you... bring Bobby back to life?”

“No,” Bobby says before Cas can answer, his voice still shaking. “No, you... you don’t understand. I’ve gone vengeful. There’s no coming back from that. And I... I don’t want to know what that would do to me if Cas brought me back.”

“You’d still be human,” Sam notes. “And you’d have us.”

Bobby shakes his head. “No, you were right, Sam, when you said I was startin’ to act like John. I can’t do that to you boys. You didn’t deserve it from him, and you damn sure don’t deserve it from me.” He rubs at his arms like they itch. “You’d better burn that flask ’fore I do somethin’ else stupid.”

Meg disappears and comes back down the stairs a moment later with Kevin and Lin behind her, and Kevin’s carrying—the skillet HM hid the flask in. Thank God someone else remembered. HM sags against BA in relief, and BA just rubs his back.

“Meg said you guys need this?” Kevin says.

“So that’s why I couldn’t find it,” Bobby murmurs as he stands to let Cas up. “And I couldn’ta gotten to it even if I had found it.”

Dean nods once at HM. “Good plan, Murdock.”

“Thanks,” HM squeaks.

Cas walks over to Kevin, carefully takes the lid off the skillet, and hands the lid to Lin. Then he lifts out the flask and takes off its leather cover.

Bobby turns to the A-Team first. “Face, BA, Murdock. Take care of my boys, will you?”

They nod. “That’s a promise,” says BA.

Bobby looks at HM more directly. “What’d you say your colonel’s name was?”

“Hannibal,” HM answers. “Hannibal Smith.”

Bobby nods. “If I can find him, I’ll tell him you said hello.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

Then Bobby nods to Kevin and Lin, but he barely even acknowledges Meg, which she doesn’t really seem to mind. Finally, he turns to Sam and Dean. “Boys. You get Dick Roman, you hear? But don’t do it just for the revenge. Do it because it’s the right thing. And when it’s your time, go.”

They nod sadly.

“See you on the other side... just don’t make it too soon.”

The boys manage to smile a little. “Sure,” says Sam.

“Bye, Bobby,” Dean whispers.

Bobby turns to Cas, who holds out the hand in which he’s holding the flask. That hand bursts into flame, and so does Bobby, but he doesn’t scream or cry out at all as the flask melts, just lets the fire take him. And by the time the flask is gone, so is he.

It’s a long time before anyone says anything or even moves.

“They didn’t teach us about that at the orphanage,” Face finally murmurs.

Lin chants a Vietnamese blessing. Kevin may be the only one who understands all of it. HM’s still too frazzled to follow all the words, but he thinks it might be the one Lin said at Hannibal’s funeral. There’s enough power in it to make Meg squirm, though.

“Thanks, Lin,” Sam says quietly when Lin finishes, and Dean nods his agreement.

Lin nods back and bows.

Dean sighs heavily and looks at the A-Team. “Look, you guys need a break from the weird. I get that. Why don’t you go on to Seattle now, scope things out for us?”

“Can you hack their security system?” Meg asks skeptically.

Face scoffs. “Can I hack their security system!”

“Actually,” Sam interrupts, “a friend of ours showed us how to do it a couple of weeks ago. I can show you real quick.”

Face deflates for a second but brightens again immediately. “Yeah, sure, that’d help.”

HM finally finds his voice again. “Wait, before we go—like, maybe while Lin packs us a lunch or something—you boys were sayin’ something last night about not knowing if the weapon has a catch or-or how you’ll know if it’s even gonna work, right?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Got more questions now than we did then.”

“Mainly because we don’t trust Crowley,” Sam explains. “He had a vial of blood all ready when we summoned him, but we have no way of knowing whether it’s really his.”

“Well, maybe I can... y’know, sense if something’s wrong.”

The boys look at each other and nod their agreement.

So everybody goes upstairs. Cas goes outside to think, and Meg and Kevin help Lin load a cooler for the A-Team while Face and BA go out to make sure the van’s ready to roll. Sam sets up a bowl and three vials of blood, and Dean quickly uses first a bone saw, then a knife to shape a point on one end of what looks like a human femur.

“Shouldn’t the blood go on the pointy end?” HM asks as Dean puts the bone into the bowl blunt end first.

The brothers look at each other, and Dean shrugs and turns the bone around. Then Sam opens each vial of blood and pours it down the length of the bone. HM’s stomach churns a little as he watches, but as the third stream of blood reaches the point, something makes him shiver—hard.

Dean looks at him sharply. “You feel anything?”

HM nods. “Couldn’t tell you what, but I sure felt something.” He shivers again, though it’s more of a reflex, and rubs his arms even though he’s not cold.

The brothers look at each other again.

“Not hearin’ any thunder or anything else,” Dean notes.

“Guess we have to assume Murdock’s sensing that it worked,” Sam replies.

Dean nods. “Thanks,” he tells HM. “You gonna be okay?”

HM nods jerkily. “Yeah. I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

Face and BA come in at that point. Sam calls Face over to his laptop, but Lin’s got the cooler ready, so BA insists that HM come out to help him load it in the van. They both know BA doesn’t need the help, but HM’s willing to oblige anyway, if only to get away from Meg.

Once they get the cooler placed between the front seats, though, BA’s hand comes down on HM’s shoulder. “I know you ain’t slept good this whole time,” he says. “We ain’t flyin’, but you need some rest, in case we need a crazy man. So you lie down in the back here. We be on the road in a couple minutes.”

HM sniffles in spite of himself. “BA... you bein’ nice to me, I... I don’t....”

“Go on, sucka.” It’s gruff. It’s grouchy. It’s BA saying _I love you_.

HM smiles, salutes, and climbs into the van. The old bench seat in the back is as hard and crowded as it was thirty years ago when it was new and still smells like Hannibal’s cigars, and he’s sound asleep even before Face comes out of the cabin.


	3. Takedown

It’s dark when HM wakes—not full dark, but after sunset—and the van is stationary. Face is fiddling with whatever new version of surveillance equipment BA’s put in the van since HM rode in it last, and BA’s in the driver’s seat with binoculars.

“Are we there yet?” HM asks groggily.

“Yeah,” Face answers, not looking away from what he’s doing. “Just got here about five minutes ago. You haven’t missed anything.”

BA puts down his binoculars, grabs something out of the cooler, and squeezes past Face. When he gets to HM, he slaps a sandwich into HM’s hand and drops a bottle of water onto the seat. “Here.”

HM doesn’t think he’s hungry, but he’s not awake enough to argue with BA, especially not when BA’s using that particular tone of voice. He takes a bite of sandwich... and the bottom drops out of his stomach. The rest of the sandwich disappears in record time.

“You need more?” BA asks, less gruffly.

HM guzzles half of the water before shaking his head. “No, not right now. Thanks, though.”

BA nods. “I called my cousin. She said you might have trouble with your blood sugar, since you been dealin’ with so much. When we’re done with the case, she wants us to come see her in Lawrence so she can help you.”

HM blinks. He doesn’t remember BA ever talking about family in Lawrence. “Which cousin is this?”

“Missouri.”

Face chuckles. “Not only is she a professional psychic, she’s friends with the Winchesters. Small world, huh?”

HM doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I gotta go watch for patrols,” says BA, getting up again. “You an’ Face can watch the security cameras.”

“We got audio on this,” HM asks Face, “or just video?”

“So far it’s just video,” Face replies. “I’m still trying to locate an audio signal, but this system may not have one.”

BA jingles past and sits down in the driver’s seat again, and HM shifts over to watch the video screen. This is the first time he’s actually seen live video of Leviathans, but somehow they give him the same sort of creepy not-human sense he got from the news reports about the crime spree the boys’ doubles went on in the fall. Yet there’s one feed that’s visibly darker than the rest for some reason, focused on an office where a tall, dark-haired man is putting something that looks like herbs into a big metal bowl set amid an array of candles.

HM points to that feed. “Is that....”

“Dick Roman,” Face confirms. “Or rather, the Leviathan posing as Dick Roman.”

“Why’s that screen darker?”

Face looks at him funny. “Murdock, they’re all the same.”

HM opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. It _could_ be his imagination. And even if it isn’t, it’s not like they’ll necessarily be able to use that knowledge—they won’t be watching the surveillance feed once they’re in the building, and there’s no telling whether he can see that kind of aura when there’s not a video camera and monitor between monster and man.

Besides that, there isn’t time to argue because Roman’s lighting candles (pun _totally_ unintended) and HM has a funny feeling he knows why. He’s seen a bowl like that, and candles beside it, at the boys’ cabin.

Face frowns. “What’s he doing?”

“It’s a summoning,” HM states quietly.

Roman holds the burning match a moment longer while he recites the spell, then drops it into the bowl. The flare whites out the screen for a moment... and when it fades, the light’s even dimmer, and there’s another man in the room, shorter, scruffier, stockier, dressed all in black.

HM’s skin crawls.

“Where the heck did he come from?” Face asks, scowling.

“I told you. Roman summoned him.”

“Well, who is he?”

“Crowley.” HM’s never seen him before, but he’s sensed him. And he can practically smell the sulfur through the screen.

“Who’s Crowley?”

“King of Hell,” HM and BA chorus.

The light in Roman’s office goes funny, kind of reddish, and Crowley looks up at something at the same time.

“Okay, the light did change just now,” says Face.

“Prob’ly a devil’s trap,” BA ventures, not looking away from whatever he’s watching with the binoculars.

Face shoots BA a worried glance, but he doesn’t miss much. Crowley and Roman are just talking for the moment. HM’s never been good at reading lips, but there’s not much mistaking the insincere, shark-like smile Roman’s wearing to schmooze or the wariness with which Crowley accepts the drink Roman offers him. They talk for a couple of minutes, and then Crowley pulls a huge scroll out of his jacket, lets it unroll onto the floor, and sits down with a wicked smile that makes Roman’s mask slip a fraction.

“They’re negotiating,” Face realizes. “But negotiating for what?”

HM shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can’t read lips—or minds.”

“So you’re not planning to set up as Murdock the Magnificent, Teller of Fortunes and Reader of Minds?”

“Man, that crazy foo’ cain’t even read his own mind,” says BA.

HM grins in spite of himself.

Face gives up on trying to get audio and settles for cycling through the other feeds while HM keeps an eye on Roman and Crowley. Not that there’s much to watch on that channel, even were it not so dark. Crowley pulls out a pen, and together he and Roman go through every word of the contract, which looks like it’s in Latin the one time HM asks Face to zoom in. HM’s a polyglot, but he never learned Latin, and Face has forgotten all but the prayers he learned at that Catholic orphanage where he grew up. So that’s no help.

HM dozes off a few times during the night but still wakes up in plenty of time to see Crowley get to the end of the scroll just about first light. Roman calls for another Leviathan who looks like an Asian woman; she takes the scroll to... make copies? That’s what it looks like when Face cycles the feeds to follow her. Roman and Crowley just sit and exchange the occasional round of barbs. Then the female goes back to the office with the scroll, a handful of pens, and someone with a notebook who may be a notary.

About the time Roman puts pen to parchment, however, HM hears something outside—the rumble of a car that’s every inch the kind of lady BA’s baby is. In fact, he can almost sense the van _greeting_ the newcomer and the newcomer sending some kind of greeting back. ( _Do_ cars talk to one another? Or are these two just that special?) Anyway, it doesn’t surprise him somehow to hear the quiet voices of Sam, Dean, and Cas outside a moment later.

BA gets up and slides open the side door. “Hey,” he calls to the boys. “Nice ride, man!”

Dean’s smile shows in his voice. “Hell, no point in hidin’ her now. ’Sides that, she’s finally got somebody classy enough to fight beside!”

Okay, HM _can’t_ be imagining the rumble of pleasure and pride, inaudible but palpable, that runs through the van at that. It distracts him enough that he loses track of the conversation outside and almost misses Crowley taking his leave of Roman and disappearing.

He doesn’t miss the female putting a cooler on Roman’s desk or what Roman tells her in response. He’s seen those words said often enough to know what they look like.

“Guys!” he yelps, spinning away from the monitor toward the open door. “Roman’s just called for a security detail. We gotta get in there before they get organized.”

Dean doesn’t have to be told twice. “Murdock, with me. Sam, Face, you know what to do. Cas, go with BA.”

“Five minutes?” BA asks.

Both boys nod once. Then Sam and Face run off, carting a box of something between them, and Cas touches BA’s forehead and they both disappear.

Dean pulls out his phone and fires off a text. “Meg’s in position,” he says as he climbs into the van. “Where’s Dick?”

HM points to the feed. “In his office. No tellin’ where he’ll be headed once that security detail shifts, though.”

“Well, we’ve got two ways of isolating him. We start toward the office, and if he moves, we meet up with the others and go after him.”

“Makes sense. So where do we go in? Front door?”

“No. They know me. But the back door’s too close to Sam and Face.” Dean cycles through the outdoor camera feeds. “There. That side door. It’s closest to Roman’s office, and there’s only two guards.”

HM nods. “So what’s the plan?”

Dean checks his watch, thinks for a moment, and explains. HM digs in a secret compartment, finds what he’s looking for, and agrees. Dean actually laughs, which is a good sign—poor kid’s barely had cause to smile this last week or so.

Three and a half minutes later, HM walks up to the side door alone, aviator cap and goggles firmly in place. “ _Entschuldigung, Guten Morgen_ ,” he says to the guards in his best and loudest Red Baron voice. “Is zis ze location to apply vor ze license to fly ze crop dusters for ze ZukroKorps?” He puts special emphasis on the _ps_ , deliberately mangling the name.

The guards look at him strangely, and HM resolutely does not quail at the sharp teeth he can barely make out when one says, “We don’t hire crop duster pilots here.”

“Zis is ze ZukroKorps headqvarters, _nicht wahr_? Zis is ze company zat makes ze high fructose corn sirop?”

“Yes....”

“And for zat you need ze healthy corn crops, yes?”

“Yes, but....”

“BUT NOZINK! I am Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, ze greatest flyer in ze vorld! I vish to offer mein zervices to ze great ZukroKorps und drrrive ze pests out of ze crops!”

“This guy’s crazy,” the second guard realizes, frowning.

“Und VY should I be called crrrazy for vanting to serve ze people of zis nation by helping zem to eat better food? I varn you, I vill not put up mit such INSOLENCE!”

“Look, buddy—”

“Hey, hey,” the first guard interrupts. “Maybe we oughta take him inside, huh? Let him make his case to the boss? Or else take him to the kitchen first. Y’know, they say nuts taste better dipped in chocolate....”

The second guard chuckles cruelly. “Yeah, and maybe some caramel and some coconut.”

“I did not come here _zu essen_!” HM objects haughtily, using the character’s irritation to hide his own fear of being turned into a giant Almond Joy. “And I did not get into zis WAR to go for cheese and eggs!”*

“Yeah, but how would you taste _with_ cheese and eggs?” The first guard’s not even hiding it now.

But HM doesn’t have to come up with a retort. Dean dumps a bucket of borax solution over the first guard’s head, and the fire alarm and outdoor sprinkler system go off at the same time, thanks to BA and Cas. HM shoves the second guard into the stream of borax shooting from the nearest sprinkler head, courtesy of Sam and Face, and he and Dean dash inside just as a distant explosion rumbles from the direction of the warehouse.

Meg turns up at the foot of the stairs they’re sprinting toward. “Now what?”

“Front door,” Dean orders. “Those board members show up, keep ’em busy.”

Meg huffs, but Dean and HM keep running, Dean using HM’s baseball cap to shield his eyes against the borax spraying down from the fire extinguisher nozzles. HM’s goggles serve the same purpose. Everywhere the Leviathans are screaming, and HM wishes he’d brought waterproof headphones to drown out the sound. But he can’t think about that right now, especially when a handful of them are showing their monster faces in their agony. These aren’t humans—and the team doesn’t have time even to put them out of their misery. They’ve got to kill Dick Roman.

Cas and BA catch up to them on the right floor. Sam and Face meet them at the elevator. But it’s Cas and Dean who take point as they run into the office, with BA and HM behind them and Sam and Face in the rear. There must be twenty Dick Romans in there at this point, but the majority of them are writhing in agony. Only one is still on his feet, though the continual spray of borax seems to be sapping his energy... or maybe he’s just waiting for Dean to come close enough to kill.

In any case, Cas lunges for the standing Leviathan, who swats him aside. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you, Dean?” Roman sneers.

“Word’s not in my vocabulary,” Dean shoots back and pulls out the bone—e-except it’s not the same bone. HM doesn’t know how he can tell, but he can.

“HEY!” Sam and Face bellow from the doorway.

Roman frowns. “Wait, is that—”

Dean cuts him off by stabbing Roman in the heart with the fake bone.

Roman just laughs, pulls the bone out, and breaks it. “Did you really think you could kill me that easily?”

“Honestly?” Dean replies, reaching into his jacket again. “No.”

Cas grabs Roman by the hair and pulls his head back, and Dean rams the real bone through Roman’s neck. And HM’s hair stands on end... Roman’s gonna blow, but something, something, something’s about to go wrong, and Dean, Cas, they’re too close.

“BA!” HM cries.

And BA tackles Cas into the far corner of the room at the same time HM grabs Dean by the collar and hauls him backward toward the door. There are shockwaves starting to build up around Roman when HM looks at him again; his gaping mouth is doing something weird, and his tongue is flailing.

“What the—” Dean gasps.

And Roman explodes. The men at the door all turn away and shield their faces, but when they turn back, there’s nothing left of Roman except black goo splattered everywhere... and all his underlings have vanished with him.

BA and Cas stand up in the corner. Thanks be to God, they’re outside the blast radius. And HM... HM’s saved Dean. There’s black sludge where Dean had been standing; he would have been vaporized, or worse, if HM hadn’t pulled him back.

Then Crowley appears in the middle of the room. “Well, Moose,” he begins, but the smirk on his face fades rapidly when he realizes that Sam’s not alone. Then he turns and sees Cas, and he looks astonished. “Castiel! Why aren’t you dead?”

“I... don’t know,” Cas confesses.

“Do you want to be? ’Cause I can help with that.”

“No, you won’t,” Meg snarls, appearing behind Crowley, and runs him through with the angel blade before Crowley can even react.

Crowley’s insides light up with hellfire, and he falls dead with more of a squelch than a thud. And nobody moves for a long moment.

“I did it,” Meg breathes, finally daring to smile, even huff a laugh. “I killed him. I’m... I’m Queen of Hell!”

Distant sirens slowly become audible outside.

“We need to get out of here,” Face says quietly.

And suddenly they’re outside, beside the van and the boys’ Impala.

Dean sighs a little. “Look, Meg....”

Meg snorts. “Don’t worry, Dean. I don’t want to see any of you freaks again, either.” Then she shoves Cas back against the van, gives him a long, passionate kiss, sighs happily, and vanishes.

Cas actually looks kind of wistful. Then he snaps his fingers, and the humans’ clothes are suddenly clean and dry.

“You comin’ back with us?” Dean asks him.

Cas shakes his head. “No, I, um... I should check on Kevin’s mother, and then I need to... think some things through. But I’ll... be in touch.” And he vanishes.

Dean sighs heavily, wearily. Then he looks at the A-Team, at HM especially. “Thank you.”

Sam just nods his agreement.

Face draws himself up a little taller. “Hey, y’know, there’s a little bed and breakfast outside Issaquah that I haven’t been to in a few years. All the food’s farm-fresh; beds are nice and comfortable. That’s not too far, and it’s on our way back to Whitefish.”

“Sounds good to me, man,” BA agrees.

Sam shakes his head. “We don’t—”

“Ah, c’mon,” Face interrupts. “My treat. I’ve got the money, and you fellas look like you could sleep for about a week.”

Dean huffs but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he looks a question at Sam, who shrugs and nods. “Think Kevin and Lin will be all right that long?” Dean asks out loud.

“Kevin’s still got all them angels lookin’ out for ’im,” BA notes. “He’s a good kid, and him an’ Lin get along pretty good.”

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam says softly. “You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in two years, maybe more than that.”

Dean sighs again, like it’s come from his toes, and he doesn’t even argue. “Yeah. Okay.”

HM feels something in his heart ease, and he turns to BA with a smile. “You know something?”

“What?” BA returns warily.

Well, somebody has to say it, so HM lets his grin widen into his best approximation of Hannibal’s. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

BA groans out of habit, but Face laughs, and so do Dean and Sam.

* * *

* Von Richthofen actually said this, when he was requesting a transfer from the quartermaster corps to front-line fighter duty.


End file.
